


The Deepest Cuts

by shootingcannibalsoutofmyheadcanon



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Boarding School, Gen, High School, School, Self Harm, Social Anxiety, TW: Self Harm, school au, tw: anxiety
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-25
Updated: 2014-03-25
Packaged: 2018-01-16 23:31:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1365736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shootingcannibalsoutofmyheadcanon/pseuds/shootingcannibalsoutofmyheadcanon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's anxiety has been getting worse. Who can help him?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer; I do not own Sherlock, I'm just writing this for fun

Sherlock turned another page of his book. He had become increasingly concerned about the main character. Nobody at school liked to talk to Sherlock when he got like this, but then again, they usually didn't talk to him anyway. He invested all of his feelings into some made-up characters, and boxed out everyone else. Sherlock preferred it this way. Not having to interact with...people. Sherlock liked to put himself into the books. He could picture himself playing with Tom Sawyer, solving mysteries with the Boxcar Children, or even surviving with Katniss in the Hunger Games. Sherlock loved all sorts of books, no matter how sad, violent, or cheesy. One of his favorite things to do was sitting in the library, surrounded by books. So many stories to read. It made Sherlock overwhelmingly happy to know that there were so many stories that he had never read, enough to last a million lifetimes.

Even though he loved reading, Sherlock knew it was bad to spend all his time alone with his books. Going on an adventure with Bilbo Baggins was probably not the best way to learn how to deal with real people at school. Sherlock always avoided conversation, and when he was forced to interact with people in school, afterwards he would go over every mistake he had made. Every vocal tone that was too high or too low. Every word out of place. Every wrong answer. Every clumsy movement. It was so easy for him to deduce everything wrong with himself. Even in the moment when he did something wrong, Sherlock could feel every pair of eyes digging into his skin, like a sharp knife with blunt edges. The blades struck into his skin jagged force, then slowly twisted around, bruising his skin, as those eyes analyzed each and every one of his faults.

So he stayed away. He stayed with his books. They were always there to make him sad, to make him concerned, to make him feel any emotion one would normally feel for a real person. He wasn't incapable of feeling, like everyone thought. Sherlock just chose to feel safe with his feelings.

There was one place at school where Sherlock enjoyed going, other than the library of course. Sherlock went to a boarding school, and it backed up into a forest. There were a lot of small places in the woods that had been there since the school had been built, but nobody knew about. Sherlock had explored a lot if these, but there was one that he always returned to. There were some bushes and a small tree covering it, so it was hidden enough so no one would find it unless they were exploring like he had been, and most of the kids at the school were too busy with their friends. If you pushed past the bushes, you would come across a small circular copse. The area was paved with stones, but the stones had been there so long that moss had started growing between the cracks. A stone bench stood at one end of the circle. This also had been claimed by nature, and was covered in moss. It made the seat very soft and comfortable, and Sherlock loved it. He would never pull it up. The trees behind the bench hung forward to form a small canopy. The canopy was low enough to form a feeling of almost being surrounded by the trees, but you could still see the entire enclosure, including Sherlock's favorite part of this spot. It was A statue of an angel. It stood larger than Sherlock, it's arms outstretched. It's wings were unfolded and the look on it's face made it seem that it was there to protect you from everything bad in the world. Protect you from the jeering faces. Protect you from the people. Like it would envelop you in it's wings and take you away. The angel stood there, eternal. Like this was a hidden corner of the world, once touched by mankind, but never to be touched again. A coat of moss coated the base of the statue, but the rest remained uncovered, like nature respected that even something man-made could show a sort of natural beauty that belonged in nature. Sherlock sat across from that statue. On weekends when he had free time, he would sit for hours just staring at the stature, and it made everything bad go away. Sherlock would study, do homework, and read there, secluded in his own world, protected by that angelic being.

Sometimes though, the angel wasn't enough. Sometimes Sherlock sat, with the tears of someone who knew that no matter how hard he tried, he could never interact with people without judging himself the entire time. He cut because of some stupid thing he had done wrong. He cut from the shame of cutting. He cut because he got it into his head he had no reason to be sad, and that he was being selfish. After all, he thought, why should he be sad when plenty of people had it worse? His family was financially stable, and even had afforded Sherlock his own room, something very few kids at this school had. His parents weren't alcoholics, or potheads, and they loved him a lot. He was amazingly smart, and took all the advanced classes he could, and he still got all A's. Why should he be sad? So he cut for being selfish. And he cut for cutting for being selfish because that was selfish. The cuts on his arms formed a ladder, which he climbed, not up, but down into the deepest and darkest parts of himself, where all he could do was curl up and hope for some savior. These were the days where when night came, Sherlock would climb the stairs to the roof of the dorm building, and stand, staring into the darkness.

It was on one of these days when Sherlock sat in the bench, sniveling into his wrists, that he heard a rustle come from the trees. He muffled his sobs, perhaps it was just an animal. Suddenly, the head of a young boy with blonde-brown hair popped out. Sherlock pulled down the sleeves of his blazer to hide the cuts. The boy saw him and stepped out, showing to be about 15, Sherlock's age. Sherlock's guy tightened as he could feel the boys eyes staring at him. "Are you alright? What's your name? I'm John"

Sherlock could feel his body shaking. His breaths were short and fast. He gasped out "I'm Sherlock. Don't worry about me. I'm fine."

John stared at Sherlock concerned. Sherlock closed his eyes, holding back tears, and waited for John to leave. To his surprise, Sherlock felt John sit on the bench next to him. "Why are you crying?" John asked.

"N-n-no reason. Please. I don't want to bother you with my problems. I'll be fine" Sherlock managed to say, despite his entire body shaking.

Suddenly Sherlock felt a pair of arms wrapping around him. He continued with his short, ragged breaths. "It's ok, you don't have to talk right now", John whispered in Sherlock's ear.

"I'll take care of you. Don't worry. I know you think I'm troubling myself by being here with you. Stop. Stop thinking that. You don't need that, not right now. Focus on your breathing. And don't tell me you're fine, I know what a panic attack looks like."

John started rubbing the small of Sherlock's back, and Sherlock concentrated more on breathing slowly in and out. "So here's what's going to happen", John continued, "We're going to sit here until you can breathe. Then we're going to go back to your room. I know you have your own. We're going to sit and you will tell me what's wrong. And I will help. No matter what your problem is. If you have trouble being alone, I will stay near you. If you have trouble with crowds, I will help keep you away from those. If you start to panic again, we can just sit together. We can do whatever makes you happy. I know you probably think you have no reason to be upset, that others have it better off, but know that it doesn't matter what your background situation is, you can still have anxiety. I know it seems odd for me to care so much, even though I just met you, but I want to help, and I want to get to know you. Alright?"

Sherlock raised up his arm and wiped tears away from his eyes, and nodded. John kept rubbing his back. "Just breathe", he whispered.

Sherlock breathed slowly in and out in John's embrace. After a while, Sherlock rested his head against John's neck. John took Sherlock's hands, helped him up, and led him away, under the gentle watch of the angel.


	2. Chapter 2

"Here, drink this." John held out a mug filled with tea.

Sherlock was sitting with his legs hanging over the foot of his queen sized bed. He hands were tangled through his curly, deep brown hair, and his elbows were digging into his thighs. His neck was arched stiffly towards the ground. Sherlock didn't want to see anything, didn't want to be seen. Didn't want to be. The tears continued streaming down his face. Quiet tears now, not the loud sobs he had in the forest. Quiet tears were worse. You can't let out all the hurt with quiet tears. The hurt that needs to be released sits inside of you, like even your hurt is hurting, and he is curled up inside of you, not able to be released. John sighed, and placed the mug on the mahogany side table. He debated what to do in his head for a second before pulling up a chair from the desk, mahogany to match the side table.

This was one of the best boarding schools, and also one of the most expensive. Sherlock's parents had afforded Sherlock one of the only single-person dorms. They assumed it was just because Sherlock wanted his own space. It was so easy to put on a mask at home. Hide the anxiety and sorrow that had been tattooed into his skin. But John saw the truth. John could see the fragile string holding the mask over Sherlock's face. John had seen Sherlock at school before. In the hallways. Sherlock had gone there last year, and John had only transferred this year. They had trigonometry together. John often worried about Sherlock. Alone. Always reading. When John saw Sherlock running off into the garden, nose turning red, he knew it was time he did something.

John pulled the chair so that when he sat he was facing Sherlock. He pulled Sherlock's hands away from his hair. Sherlock held his hands in front of him, staring at them almost in horror. John glanced concernedly up into Sherlock's eyes. "Sherlock? What's wrong"

Sherlock's breathing sped up. "M-m-my hands. They're vibrating. I can barely feel them. And my feet are numb."

John felt Sherlock's hands, which were shaking a little, but not as much as Sherlock described. "Shh...Sherlock, it's the way you're sitting, hunched up so rigidly. You're cutting of your circulation, pushing your elbows into your legs like that. Here, lie back, and don't forget to breathe."

Of course, of course! Sherlock's mind cried out. John stood up to help Sherlock lie down on the bed. How could he be so stupid? Of course that's why his hands were shaking. Damn it. Normally, Sherlock's mind was like a clear window. He could see everything. Everything about everyone. Everything made sense. It was simple. But whenever he got like this, especially when it got really bad, it was like a class of five year olds had gotten near it. Finger prints everywhere. Mud splattered. Cracks. And nothing made sense. Whatever he thought he could see was clouded. Some things were warped by the cracks. The frustration just led to more mud, and more fingerprints.

Sherlock choked on a sob, and John moved his chair so he was at the side of the bed, able to lean over to Sherlock. John rubbed his shoulders, trying to get him to un-tense. Sherlock felt the feeling returning to his hands and feet. That eased him a bit. "Sherlock", John whispered, "If you're feeling up to it, I want you to tell me what made you cry like this?"

Sherlock managed to get his breathing back down, and the tears stopped flowing. Sherlock sniffled, and tried to smile past his red-flushed face and wet cheeks. "I-I-I'm fine. I um, it's stupid really."

John stared him dead in the eye "It's not stupid. Tell me what happened."

Sherlock gulped and continued. "It's just that for history we had to pair up with a partner and mine was that one girl, Molly. She was really nice, and she actually made an effort to have a conversation. But I'm just so stupid, I'm terrible at carrying on a conversation. There's nothing really of importance to talk about. Anything else just seems a bit unnecessary I guess." Sherlock talked quickly, then turned his face away from John's, "She thinks I was being rude. She thinks that I was trying to be mean. She thinks that I think that there's something wrong with her. I could tell."

"So, you're not really good with people?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Not at all, I try and avoid large groups of people. Whenever I'm in a large group, I always seem to mess up somehow. I'll trip over someone's foot and fall, or I'll bump into somebody. And then people fucking stare at me with those eyes..."

Sherlock started breathing faster again, as memories were triggered to come to the front of Sherlock's memory. John rubbed his back "It's okay, Sherlock, it's okay. I get it. Large groups freak you out, and you're afraid of bothering other people. So how about his. I can pull some strings so we have all our classes together, which is absolutely no trouble. Actually would be a bit of help, this guy in one of my classes is a piece of shit. If there's ever group projects, we'll pair up. You don't have to carry a conversation, alright? It'll be ok."

Sherlock got a panicked look on his face, and lurched so he was sitting up, grasping John's arms. "Please John, please don't do all that for me. It's too much, I don't deserve it. Please."

John chuckled a little. "Sherlock, please let me help you. You deserve this. You deserve a lot more than you have. You're over analyzing everything you do, deducing it into something that destroys you. You just need the opportunity to get it. I want to help."

John pulled Sherlock into a hug. Sherlock gasped. He was so unused to any sort of friendship. He was scared. Mortified, actually. What if he messed this up? What if he got too clingy? What if all of a sudden John got tired of him? He started shaking again. John rubbed his back. "Don't worry Sherlock, I'm right here."

Sherlock started relaxing again. He felt safe with the shorter boy wrapped around him. He breathed deeply. In through his nose, out through his mouth. Steady. When he got his breathing under control, he slowly whispered into John's ear. "Thank you."


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock awoke the next morning with the blankets twisted around him. He had a layer of sweat around his neck, and his eyes were crusty from tears. He turned his neck to the side. The chair was empty. Sherlock turned his head so he was facing the ceiling again. Of course John was gone. He probably realized that Sherlock was too much trouble and left. Now whenever they passed in the hallway, John would be internally laughing at him and how weak he was. Sherlock felt his nose turn red again. He sat up and felt a sudden rush of emotion. How could he be so stupid? He should have never agreed to let John come to his dorm. He would walk past John and his bug group of friends, and John would whisper something in another kid's ear. Something about how stupid it was that Sherlock didn't like large crowds, and what a mess he was. Suddenly Sherlock felt an immense anger in himself. He was a mess. Everything John said would be true. He wouldn't be able to defend himself, he would be too afraid to defend himself, and that would just prove John right. He rammed his head backwards into the wooden headboard. He felt a sharp pain in his skull, which dulled into a numbness. He raised his head up, and hit his head again. And again. He was just so infuriated at himself. Eventually his entire skull felt numb, and Sherlock slumped back into his bed.

He had better get ready for school. What time was it anyways? Sherlock glanced over at his alarm clock. He groaned. He had slept past lunchtime. He had missed all his morning classes, and the afternoon classes had already started. Sherlock rubbed his eyes. This had happened before, once or twice. He would skip all his classes like last time. He didn't want to have to walk into a room filled with questioning eyes.

Those eyes. The eyes that could be thinking anything. Everyone in class already thought he was either weird or a snob because he was always alone. Those eyes sent messages into Sherlock's mind, and his demons took those messages and warped them into something worse. And Sherlock knew that was the case, but still believed his demons, just because over the years he had actually come to believe those twisted words. Those words wrapped in tight bandages of darkness, climbing around Sherlock's throat, ready to drain him of his life at any moment.

Even just thinking about it made Sherlock turn in discomfort. He rubbed the crust out of his eyes, and lay back down on the bed. Suddenly, there was a knock at the door. Sherlock stayed perfectly still. If it was a teacher, they might make him go to class, and that meant facing the eyes. He held his breath, and made his body rigid, desperate not to make a single noise. "Sherlock, are you there?" It was John.

Sherlock relaxed his body. He removed himself from bed, placing his feet gingerly on the carpet. He still had his shoes and socks on from the other night. He paced over to the door and opened it a crack. He haltingly widened the opening, revealing John standing with a tray and a grin on his face. Sherlock stared at John, unsure what to do. John walked in and placed the tray on Sherlock's side table. There was a glass of milk and a grilled cheese sandwich "Morning Sherlock. Boy you slept in. Good thing it's Saturday. I brought you lunch."

Saturday? Sherlock was relieved, but also angry at himself for being such an idiot and freaking out before he could think clearly. Sherlock stood, bewildered. "I already ate, but I figured you really should eat. I'm sorry for not waking you up, but I figured you should probably rest."

John walked in and placed the tray on the table. He dragged the desk chair over from the side of the bed, and led Sherlock to sit in the chair that was already there. He slid the tray over to Sherlock. Sherlock, still unsure what was happening, glanced up at John, and John gave him an encouraging nod and a smile. Sherlock carefully sipped from the glass.

"So I was thinking today we could stay in. Study a little for the trig test on Tuesday. Oh, by the way, I got all my classes switched to yours so that's settled."

"Oh, you didn't have to do that. please, I don't want to bother you. please. I'm fine. what about your friends?"

"I just transferred here recently. And the kids in the class, I don't know. Some seem kind of nice, but I really want to be your friend. Sherlock, stop thinking that you're a bother, because you're not. We were already taking the same classes, just the times were different. Maybe if we get tired of studying we could pop in a movie. Possibly go outside for some fresh air if your up for it. Your head is still probably fuzzy for yesterday."

And it was like John was the angel from the garden, cleaning the window that was Sherlock's mind off with his heavenly light, sealing the cracks with his wings. Sherlock smiled as he chewed his food, and John stood up, came over, and hugged him. His angel enveloped him with his otherworldly protection. He couldn't be harmed as he was wrapped in John's wings. The light he emanated was strong enough to make the demons in Sherlock's mind run for terror.

Even though Sherlock was overwhelmingly grateful to his angel, the demons were still there, just hiding. And if John were to leave, the demons could triple in size and start tearing apart the flesh of Sherlock's being, bit by bit with their sharpened blades. Sherlock knew he would always have to keep his barriers up. Don't get too close. Never let John see how broken he was, or else he might give up and leave. Sherlock didn't want to lose John, but also didn't want to guilt John into staying his friend. So the war raged between John and the demons, with Sherlock trapped in the middle.


End file.
